


Symbiosis

by silhouette (thiefless)



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Feels, Developing Relationship, Falling In Love, Iron Man Suit Kink, M/M, Masturbation, Rough Oral Sex, Self-cest, Time Travel, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Unconventional Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:15:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25677190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thiefless/pseuds/silhouette
Summary: Tony hardened, like iron, in Mr. Stark’s mouth.Or: the one in which Tony Stark becomes romantically involved with...well, himself.
Relationships: Tony Stark/Tony Stark
Comments: 27
Kudos: 105





	Symbiosis

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys :) I posted this a while ago, and then I had doubts about it so I promptly deleted it, but now I am back and this story is going to stay. 
> 
> This is a self-cest romance featuring Tony Stark/Tony Stark (and a touch of the Iron Man suit for good measure), because why not. There's also a little Irondad thrown in there, too. 
> 
> Sorry, I'm rambling. I just hope you guys enjoy it! :)

In his defence, Tony was bored. And, much like all masterful villains and petty criminals would attest to, trying to stave off boredom was a precursor to a great many misdemeanours. Ergo – could he really be blamed for starting something that he really, really shouldn’t have touched with a ten foot pole? 

Verdict: he so could.

* * *

Anyway. On the night in question – the night his life irrevocably changed – Tony’s aforementioned boredom led him to dismantle and re-assemble DUM-E for the eighth time that evening, waiting for glorious inspiration to strike him down where he sat. 

And then Tony’s literal mirror image crash-landed into his lab.

Nostalgia tinted the sharp contours of this Tony look-a-like’s features – were he a photograph, he would be filtered in sepia tones. “Ah,” the uninvited intruder said, mulling around. “The Playboy Mansion. I’d almost forgotten what it looked like.”

Tony smirked like a shark. Boredom was the furthest thing from his mind. “Just call me Hugh Hefner. And what should I call you?”

“Stark.” The man flashed a charming smile, brandishing his hand. “Mr. Stark.”

Tony shook it. “Funny.” To the ceiling, “J.A.R.V.I.S., darling, light of my life, would you do me a favour and check this man’s credentials?”

 _“Certainly, sir,”_ his trusted A.I. said with all the diplomatic tact Tony hardwired into his schematics. 

Mirth shimmered in _Mr. Stark’s_ dark brown eyes. Enchanted seemed too strong a word, but Tony was most definitely interested, at the very least. 

“J.A.R.V.I.S.,” the man echoed, glancing up at the ceiling as Tony had done so many times before. “Missed you, buddy.”

Tony frowned, thoroughly dumbfounded.

J.A.R.V.I.S., faithful companion he was, pointedly ignored him.

 _“Analysing facial structure, language patterns, behavioural make-up. Internal examination commencing.”_ A blinding light filled the room, dazzling Tony’s vision. _“Configuring the results.”_

“How’s that going, honey?” Tony asked with all his customary impatience.

_“Give me a minute, sir.”_

Mr. Stark was looking straight at Tony. The fluttering in Tony’s stomach his stare provoked was entirely coincidental. 

_“My tests report that, given the absence of a DNA test, the two of you share striking similarities and internal body anatomy. My calculations indicate a 95% chance of homogeneity.”_

At this point, Tony didn’t require the genetic test. J.A.R.V.I.S.’s prediction software was off-the-charts, and he would know – he made it. Anything above 90% was just about a guarantee; age would account for the remaining 5% difference. 

Well, well, well. This was not how Tony envisaged his evening would go down, but he wasn’t about to complain. 

The man grinned. “I am the life model decoy of Tony Stark.” He waved a media-fluent hand down the length of his body, Tony following hungrily. 

“You are, aren’t you?” Tony murmured, wetting his lips. 

His future self smirked, as devilishly handsome as the one Tony himself conjured when high on coke. Only, this man did not need any recreational substance to fund his personality. 

“Just call me Mr. Stark,” the man said, parroting their earlier conversation. 

“Mr. Stark, huh?” His hand snaked downward, low and wicked. “I could use a little of that.” The blonde he seduced earlier that evening hadn’t lived up to her promised _freak in the sheets_ reputation. Tony hadn’t bothered taking her to bed. 

Downside – now, he was exceptionally horny. 

Staving off a surge of tenacious lust, Tony fixed himself a drink, non-verbally offering his counterpart a glass too. 

Mr. Stark declined. 

Great. Age would turn him into a teetotaller. That was just great. What the hell happened to turn him into such a bore? Looked like Tony was living his prime right here, right now. 

Tony 2.0 blanked his expression, no doubt noting Tony’s growing disdain for who he would become. 

“How’d you get here anyway?” Tony asked, deflecting. 

“I’m trying to crack time travel,” his literal carbon copy explained. It was only a tad supercilious. “It is a remarkable feat, I am amazing, blah blah blah. No, I do not have time to hold your hand and guide you through it.”

Fuck. Tony always was a sucker for imperious charm. Particularly, as time would have it, his own. Scientific exploration made for some undeniably sexy foreplay.

“Time travel?”

“Yes, time travel.”

Jesus, fuck, this was hot. 

“How long are you planning to stay?” asked Tony, casual. “On a deadline?”

Mr. Stark checked his watch. The same one Tony himself was wearing on his wrist– _fuck, hot._

“About an hour, should be. Depends on how long it takes F.R.I. to track my time travel GPS.”

“Fry?”

Mr. Stark smiled. “Female J.A.R.V.I.S.”

“What happened to _my_ J.A.R.V.I.S.?” Tony wondered out loud. He did so hate sharing his toys. 

A shadow crossed his other self’s face. “That’s too long a story to tell.”

Tony was shameless: “I know a better way to pass the time.”

Mr. Stark arched a brow. Tony caught a flicker of filthy recognition flash across his older face, and arousal bubbled in his blood at the sinful sight. 

“Yeah?” he inquired, making sure. 

Tony took a seat, discarding his drink to the side. Mr. Stark mimicked his actions, choosing the couch opposite to seat his gorgeous ass. Excellent choice; the view was magnificent. 

“Yeah,” Tony said finally, gravelly. His fingers ghosted his hardening erection in his pants. “How does self-cest sound to you?” See, he was no stranger to deviating from the norm, and, well, _this_ situation was definitely abnormal. 

Exactly the way he liked ‘em. 

For all intents and purposes, they were the same person. They knew each other like the back of their hand; and that was a literal statement, you could quote him on that. 

It was just sexual recycling. Hark at Tony, being all eco-friendly – like the arc reactor technology that did fuck all except did power his factory. 

Plus: he always had wondered what he looked like in the throes of pleasure. 

“Isn’t self-cest just a fancy term for masturbation?” Mr. Stark said after a pregnant pause. It wasn’t a no.

Tony simply shrugged. He didn’t much care about the terminology. 

“Why not?” Mr. Stark’s immoral smirk should be safely locked behind bars. Good thing too; Tony would need a prison mate. “Got nothin’ better to do.” 

_So say we all._

Don’t great minds think alike?

“Attaboy.” Tony was practically drooling waiting to start touching himself in front of, well, _himself_. 

Mr. Stark was hard and thick, and the image would be permanently seared into Tony’s brain. That big hand, decorated in callouses Tony knew all too well, pumped sure and steady, conducting a meter Tony also jerked off to. His face was flushed, eyes black and fixated on Tony just as Tony fixated on his. Pleasure adorned his handsome features – the very same pleasure that thrummed in Tony’s veins. 

In the haze of lust, one thought remained: Tony really, really enjoyed watching himself come undone. 

Tony came first. Unfortunately, his stamina wasn’t quite up to par with Mr. Stark’s. Having said that, he wanted it noted that it took longer for his elder to recuperate after what appeared to be the best orgasm of his considerably aged life. 

Yes, Tony was going to take credit. Sue him. 

“See you next time?” he asked, righting his clothes. 

Mr. Stark followed suit. “Do you want there to be a next time?”

Tony’s grin was as large as a Cheshire Cat’s. “Surprise me.”

* * *

Spoiler alert: there was a next time. And a next time. A time after that too. Tony stopped counting after a while, content to simply be taken along for the ride. They established a routine – and soon enough that routine became the only thing worth living for in this piece-of-shit world. 

Look at that. This sick, twisted symbiotic relationship that somehow manifested between them had become the singular saving grace of Tony’s life. Wasn’t that just hilarious? And absolutely par for the course.

* * *

Even in the slums of a darkened cave in the middle of Afghanistan, that statement held true. 

At first. 

But then–

Somewhere along the way – between the torture methods and a crushing guilt complex the size of the sun; between the fact that _Tony’s own actions led to countless innocent deaths, murders_ – Tony had a change of heart. 

He thought: Mr. Stark had known what was about to happen; had allowed it to happen regardless. 

Had _wanted_ it to happen. 

Had aided and abetted Tony’s crimes, kept his secrets, and left him to suffer the consequences in exile. 

Hate festered in his wounds. Tony pounded metal on metal; thoughts filled with vengeance. 

* * *

Tony’s freedom came with a cost: Yinsen – another life lost, another tally mark on his list of the dead. Where before his conscience had been a non-existent concept, now it was an enraged monster that threatened to devour the whole world in its wake. 

Starting with Mr. Stark: the bastard behind the revolution. 

Tony shut down S.I.’s weapons division to the grand shock of just about everyone and their dog, told Obie to get off his back, deflected Rhodey and Pepper’s joint concern and confusion, and set about creating his avenging angel. 

By the time Mr. Stark popped up, Tony was elbow-deep in the Mark II’s guts.

“They found you then,” was all he said – blank and neutral, as though Tony hadn’t been held prisoner for three fucking months. Just because this was old hat for Mr. Stark did not mean that Tony was exempt from feelings. 

Tony stood to his full height. He stripped off his protective gear, his goggles, until he was clad only in his black tank and pants. 

Mr. Stark watched. 

“Get on your knees,” Tony commanded, low. His fingers traced the line of his buckle, teasing. 

Mr. Stark dropped to the floor. Understanding dawned on his features, and he accepted his fate, eyeing Tony as he unbuttoned his pants and drew out his cock. He opened his mouth, and Tony roughly worked himself inside. 

Tony hardened, like iron, in Mr. Stark’s mouth. 

One should never underestimate the depravity of Tony Stark’s soul. 

“Look how quick you got on your knees for me,” he said, disappointment cloying every syllable. His pace quickened, thrusts turning harsh. Punishing. “Such a slut for my cock, aren’t you? So desperate, so greedy.”

Mr. Stark moaned. Tony responded in kind, smashing the man's face against his pubic hair. Mr. Stark tried adjusting to the rhythm, but Tony wasn’t interested in his technique. He didn't want it to be _good._ For fuck’s sake, he’d spent the past three months with nothing but his hand when he could manage it.

“That’s right,” hissed Tony. “Suck me off.”

With every thrust, every jolt of his hips in his doppelgänger’s mouth, Tony deprogrammed whatever system Mr. Stark operated on – the one that allowed him to construct this façade to hide behind, and lie even to himself. Deep down, Mr. Stark was still the same war-profiteering, playboy bastard who wormed his way out of any and all consequences. This man just hid it better. 

Tony knew: he didn’t want a future if this was who he would turn out to be. 

And, with every fibre of his being, Tony infused all the hate in the world to Mr. Stark. To this man, who didn’t give a flying fuck to anyone other than _himself._ Because there was nobody left to hate – Tony had screwed everyone else, sometimes thrice over – until the only one left to defile was himself. Only him. No one else. 

Wow. Talk about self-sabotage. He was taking self-destructive tendencies to a whole new level. 

Mr. Stark looked up at him with those big, frighteningly dark eyes, and Tony _came._

His orgasm ruptured his abdomen. His hands twisted in that thick greying head of hair, and he shoved deep inside Mr. Stark’s throat, well aware of what he could handle, and came – closing his eyes because his brain was fried trying to compute the fact that _he just fucked his face,_ never mind attempting to decipher the unreadable look in Mr. Stark’s eyes. 

Perversely, Tony debated holding him there long after his mouth had wrung the last drops of his pleasure; as Mr. Stark’s mind slowly grew hypoxic, oxygen levels depleting. Tony could picture the epitaph now: _Herein lies Tony Stark, who died choking on his own cock._

Tony yanked Mr. Stark off him, watching him cough, watching him splutter, watching him gasp for the reprieve Tony waited to give him. 

There, he left him: on his knees, drool streaking down his chin, the remnants of Tony’s come on his lips. 

* * *

In spite of the picture-perfect depiction of coolness Tony exuded; in reality, he was anything _but._

Tony was a man world-renowned for his faithful unfaithfulness; his loyalty to the disloyalty; his devotion to the undevoted. No surprises there – he’d spent the better part of his life manufacturing weapons, telling everyone and himself that it was ‘for the greater good’. Felt like a funny sort of justice, then, when he saw his weapons in the hands of those who imprisoned him. 

He wondered what Mr. Stark had done when he wore Tony’s suit – back before he apparently traded in his devil-may-care disposition for the quiet life. 

Tony, in Mr. Stark’s mind, must have been nothing but a rotten memory from a bygone era. Maybe by allowing Tony to use him as greedily as he dared, he thought he was sparing Tony from the maladaptive coping mechanisms he himself favoured when he was in Tony’s shoes. 

God. He had mastered the art of psychoanalysis. Someone hand him a gold star, he did so love those. 

He met with Mr. Stark on one condition: that his future self tell him everything he knew about was to come, ‘as a courtesy’. 

As expected, Mr. Stark complied with the request. 

Tony’s mind was filled with images of the future – bright, beautiful paintings of newfound families and surrogate sons; and ugly, visceral depictions of loss and betrayal. Tears glistened in Tony’s eyes by the time Mr. Stark finished his autobiography, and Tony was struck with the inexplicable urge to wipe them away for him. He didn’t do so. Obviously. Yet the compulsion lingered regardless.

There was a mountain of differences that lay between them – the antithesis of Mr. Stark and Tony – ones that would put even the great Mt. Everest to shame. 

Let’s list the key ones:

  1. Tony didn’t give a rat’s ass about bureaucracy; Mr. Stark was a pampered boot-licker. 
  2. Tony preferred solo action; Mr. Stark was a team player. 
  3. Tony was the villain of his story; Mr. Stark was the common man’s hero. 



He could go on, but the picture they represented provided enough of a visual that he got the message. Somewhere between here and the future, Mr. Stark got a personality transplant. Meanwhile, Tony was still traumatised by his awake open-heart surgery to risk going back under the knife. 

Mr. Stark’s expressions were sculpted by years’ worth of anguish. 

Tony decided: the life Mr. Stark penned was not a self-fulfilling prophecy. Just because they shared biology and, like, four-fifths of memory space did not mean that they were the same person. Tony’s prefrontal cortex was his own, thank you very much. 

“Obie,” Tony said, guttural. He cleared his throat. “He did this.”

Tony’s fury was mirrored in the cold light of Mr. Stark’s face. “He did.”

 _So did I._ The reality of the situation left a bitter, acrid taste in the back of his mouth. 

“Are you okay?” asked Mr. Stark. His concern sounded genuine.

Tony was a coward by trade – and, yeah, he’d started to break that cycle, but personalities were a fickle thing. Consequently, Tony veered away from the raw, open vulnerability between them, and channelled all that repressed rage into sexual energy. 

“What I am is stressed,” he snapped.

Judging by the look in Mr. Stark’s eyes, his counterpart understood all the things Tony refused to say. 

In retaliation, Tony made sure to clarify, “Sexually.”

Mr. Stark obeyed, yielding under Tony’s harsh kisses and rough touch, astoundingly deferential, granting Tony free reign to take whatever he wanted from him. 

(Yes, Tony did fuck him up the ass.)

* * *

He was pleased to report that, over the growing number of days, _Operation: Hate-Cest_ was going down well. Tony moulded Mr. Stark into his bitch, fucking into him like a glorified human sex toy. 

Mr. Stark was older, haggard, deep scars defacing the skin of his sternum where Tony’s arc reactor lay to rest. 

The man was a beast to tame; nevertheless, Tony put on a good show of it: bite marks littering his scarred flesh, leaving bruises the shape of Tony’s hands, snarling into Mr. Stark’s name, “Only I can make you feel like this,” until he had no choice but to come from Tony’s fierce treatment alone. 

Tony always came last, and only after he had wrung the very last of pleasure from the man. 

Adding to that, Tony always took him from behind – that part was crucially non-negotiable. Tony would lie to himself; say that this was just his preferred position; that it allowed for greater penetration, greater depth, greater range of motion. 

Honestly? Tony couldn’t bear to see his own face twisted in pleasure, begging for a release only Tony could give, succumbing to _la petite mort_ and spurring Tony on in his wake. 

Tony allowed himself to be rough with Mr. Stark in a way he hadn’t been with _anyone._ Because the only person Tony could satisfy – _truly_ satisfy – was Tony. Mr. Stark was merely an extension to that effect. 

That was all. 

* * *

Strangely, Mr. Stark and Tony settled into this bizarre new pattern. Every night, Mr. Stark came to him – allowing Tony to use him as he saw fit, giving him clues from the future to rewrite history. However, the longer Tony shared time and space with his future counterpart, the less he was sure whether any ideas he came up with were actually his own or a weird presentation of cryptomnesia, piggy-backing off of Mr. Stark.

In response, Tony set about doing what he did best: changing the rules of the game – irreparably. 

The _I am Iron Man_ chapter as narrated by Mr. Stark was no longer a historical footnote in Tony’s timeline. Instead, he opted to keep Agent Coulson’s version of events, and let the world labour under the illusion that Iron Man was his trusty bodyguard – Christine Everhart’s assertion to the contrary be damned. 

Mr. Stark gave Tony coordinates to Captain America’s position, trusting him to recalibrate the frozen man and integrate him into civilian life. He did advise him to entrust the position of CEO to Pepper – “There’s no one more qualified.” – and Tony did agree with him, but he wanted to see what he would be like as a competent leader of Stark Industries himself first. 

Perhaps most importantly, Mr. Stark also refined Tony’s arc reactor, demonstrating the process in which he created an entirely new atom from cryptic blueprints their father left behind. _Bad-Assium,_ Mr. Stark named it, a twinkle in his eye. 

Tony was inclined to agree. 

(Genius intellects were super hot.)

Mr. Stark led the operation. He focused like a laser, eyes burning a brand-new hole in Tony’s chest, hands deep in his flesh, performing a flawless, intricate procedure that would put even Yinsen to shame. 

The attention was all at once stifling and suffocating, and Tony desired nothing more than to command the situation. 

“How’d _you_ do this?” he asked, “the first time?”

“Oh, I had the wonderful Ms. Potts helping me out,” Mr. Stark said, corner of his mouth quirking in amusement. “She was good. She did send me into impromptu cardiac arrest, but it worked out well.”

Tony snorted. “How much do you wanna bet she did that on purpose?”

Mr. Stark chuckled. “I really don’t wanna know.”

Their laughter petered out. Mr. Stark reconnected the new and improved arc reactor to Tony’s chest, sans palladium, Tony’s eyes never leaving his face. 

* * *

The next time Mr. Stark came into being in Tony’s lab, he brought supplies with him. 

Specifically: food. 

“I’m cooking,” he announced with no small amount of cheer, moving past Tony’s human barricade, and heading into the kitchen. 

Tony was bemused, to say the very least.

Mr. Stark took advantage of his momentary shock, dumping ingredients down on the counter, rifling through cupboards, making this meal from scratch. 

Tony analysed the foreign sight with keen interest. His future self operated with an easy familiarity, seamlessly dominating the space, muttering under his breath in a shorthand Tony did not understand. 

He paused. “That’s my favourite dish.”

Turning away from the chaotic mess his presence brought, Mr. Stark’s face softened into something– something Tony vehemently refused to compute. “I know.”

Well, what the hell was Tony supposed to do with that?

“When did I learn how to cook?” he marvelled instead, watching his parallel thrive in this domestic scene. “More to the point: _why_ did I learn how to cook?”

Mr. Stark’s smirk was a sight to behold, all that arrogance rolling off him in waves – a decadent display. “I have a great many skills.”

“Impressive,” Tony said, dry. 

Brown eyes caught brown eyes. “I know. I am.”

Tony’s mouth turned to ash. The depth of emotion streaming in the man’s eyes was too much – far too much – and it burnt like fire. Iron melted under fire, though it put up a good fight. 

Mr. Stark’s snort snapped him out of his reverie. “Just don’t go making omelettes any time soon,” he warned. 

Ah. Now that sounded more like the Tony Stark he knew. 

Mr. Stark shot him a covert smile. Tony responded with an unwilling brand of his own.

Dinner was good. Great, even. He was a terrific cook; the finest he’d ever known.

Only–

Having all the love and adoration and hero-worship from someone who historically hated him – his arch-enemy, as it were – was a little jarring, if Tony were being perfectly honest. 

After dinner was served, Mr. Stark kissed him; a simple peck on the lips, yet Tony’s stomach fluttered like he had just had the life snogged out of him.

Newsflash: this situation was seriously jacked up. 

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

* * *

Later that night, Tony took Mr. Stark apart beneath him, pace slow and tempered. He waited for Mr. Stark to come before he quickened his hips, chasing his end, biting down on the meat where neck met shoulder as he came. 

Short, shallow breaths filled the quiet of Tony’s bedroom, the both of them waiting for their respective heart rates to sink. Tony wanted to say something, anything, but speech eluded him.

Mr. Stark got up, unhurriedly getting dressed.

“I wasn’t, I–” Tony coughed. “I hope I wasn’t too rough with you.”

Mr. Stark turned contemplative, an unreadable expression dancing in those dark eyes Tony’s never had the chance to admire. Softly, slowly, Mr. Stark invaded his personal space; Tony relenting. Mr. Stark raised his big, calloused palm, cupped Tony’s jaw, and gently pressed his mouth against Tony’s: close-lipped and fragile – a thing of precious beauty.

“No,” he murmured. “You were perfect.”

The smile his opinion engendered was entirely unintentional, and most certainly did not reflect his shifting view on himself. Like: at all. 

Ain’t narcissism a marvellous concept?

* * *

Following that particular sexual union, Tony gentled his actions. He never managed to fuck Mr. Stark face-to-face – he wasn’t quite prepared for what he might find there – but he did relinquish his combative stance. For whatever that was worth. 

“So,” Mr. Stark said pleasantly after an especially enjoyable lay, thanks to Tony’s recently discovered chivalry. “You know all about my tragic love life. How is yours?”

“If this is your roundabout way of asking if we’re exclusive, we are. I only sleep with people named Stark,” he said. At his back, Mr. Stark nibbled on his earlobe, draping all that delicious weight over him.

“Well, that certainly takes our dysfunctional relationship with Mom and Dad to a whole new level.”

Tony laughed, utterly unprompted. After a beat, Mr. Stark provided the chorus. 

Turning over in his hold, Tony looked into the face of the man he was beginning to prize above all else. Mr. Stark was more than a relic, a trophy – he was human, like Tony, with all the trials and tribulations that came with that. He was fallible, breakable, imperfect.

_Perfect._

Yeah, there were words he could maybe try and use to describe this – synonyms and the like. Words that were too infinitesimal; words that did nothing to convey the sheer magnitude of what this was to Tony. Words that could not appropriately portray how this beautifully unorthodox, unconventionally sublime dynamic had burrowed deep below his sternum, slithered all the way down through the chinks of his arc reactor, and made a home in the ruins of Tony’s beating heart. 

Because _this,_ this was– something. 

Oh, it was something alright. 

* * *

Under Mr. Stark’s tutelage, Tony gifted the Mark II armour to Rhodey, told HYDRA posing in the US government where to shove it, defeated Ivan Vanko and Justin Hammer long before they had the opportunity to pose a threat. All within a six-month period. That had to be worthy of some kind of Nobel prize consideration, right?

Mr. Stark basked in Tony’s celebration, smacking a big fat kiss on his mouth the moment he arrived. 

“How would you feel,” Tony muttered against his lips, only a little risqué, “about a threesome?” He was in the mood to party. 

Mr. Stark’s grin turned wicked, nefarious. Tony delighted in the transition. “Now you’re talking.”

The Mark VI armour remotely entered the room, caught under Tony’s silent spell. Mr. Stark beckoned the suit over with the sleaziest of smiles – one that Tony hadn’t yet polished. 

“How do you want to play this?” inquired Mr. Stark, giving Tony the privilege of his full attention. It was impossible to miss the storm of lust thundering in his black eyes, reflecting the heat no doubt blazing in Tony’s own. 

The way it worked was this: Iron Man stretched face-up on Tony’s king-size bed; Tony stretched Mr. Stark open with his fingers, and then ordered him to ride his own creation. As for Tony– he stuck his cock in Mr. Stark’s wet, vulgar mouth and thoroughly debauched him. 

You just couldn’t go wrong with a good old-fashioned spit-roast. 

Between them, they didn’t last long. 

After, Tony deprogrammed the suit, and just lazed about in the post-orgasmic afterglow, sweaty limbs entangling with Mr. Stark’s. His knee bumped into Tony’s. An alluring aroma of musk and sex filled the air; a punchy cocktail Tony would more than happily get drunk off of. 

“Fuck,” Mr. Stark breathed, panting. “I think that was the hottest thing I’ve ever done.”

Tony preened. He did so love being praised. “You’re welcome.”

Rolling his eyes, Mr. Stark nosed along the curve of Tony’s neck, encouraging him to bare more of his throat. Mr. Stark’s coarse goatee grazed Tony’s flesh. Tony relished the friction, mind thinking, _screw it._ He’d always had a skewed sense of morality, but this took the cake. Easily, the most fucked up thing he’d ever done. He was daily sure Satan was saving a nice, toasty seat for him in Hell. 

Oh, well. Heaven was too mainstream for his tastes anyway. 

* * *

Mr. Stark requested to spend the night. Irrational panic flooded Tony’s system. Counter-intuitive though it may be, he didn’t sleep with just anyone. Fuck, yes. But actual, honest-to-God slumber? That would be a hard NO. Mr. Stark knew all this, surely. Tony couldn’t have changed that much in a decade’s worth of time. Sleepovers just weren’t his thing. 

Yet the man made a home out of Tony’s bed, and he didn’t have the heart to extricate him. 

(Sure. That’s what Tony would tell himself.)

“Sleep, baby,” Mr. Stark whispered softly, carding rhythmic fingers through Tony’s mussed hair. “I got you.” He wound an arm over Tony’s chest, palm stretched over the brilliant blue of the arc reactor.

Tony melted in his embrace. And, away from the crushing guilt, the stressors that dominated his life, the stalking anxiety – he found rest.

* * *

In the interests of full disclosure: Mr. Stark was enchanted by Tony. 

By all accounts, the feeling was mutual. 

* * *

Mr. Stark regaled Tony with stories of the Avengers Initiative and of S.H.I.E.L.D. – a tale that, much to his ever-lasting surprise, started with Howard and ended with some guy named Fury. 

“They sound annoying.”

“Not all of them were annoying,” Mr. Stark countered. “Coulson was a good guy.”

Key word: _was._

Tony filed that knowledge for later use. 

Apparently, back in Mr. Stark’s time, some Russian spy-turned-S.H.I.E.L.D.-ally – Natasha Romanoff – had infiltrated Stark Industries with Mr. Stark none the wiser. 

“Fury had her do a character eval on me, see if I was good enough to join their brotherhood.” Mr. Stark nipped at the skin of Tony’s throat, soothing the mark with his tongue. “She said I was a textbook narcissist.”

Arching a brow, Tony gestured down the warm span of Mr. Stark’s body, pressed so achingly close to his. “Because nothing about this screams _narcissist_ , does it?”

Mr. Stark smothered his grin in Tony’s flesh.

That was the crux of the matter: Mr. Stark's love was unconditional. Tony could announce Iron Man as a budding supervillain, and Mr. Stark would welcome him with open arms. Or maybe he, held aloft by an unwavering, incomprehensible faith, just knew Tony would _never._

–and Tony loved him for it. 

Echoing that sentiment, Mr. Stark pressed feather light kisses to Tony's eyelids, the action so tender and affectionate Tony feared for a second that his heart suffered another malfunction.

Then, Mr. Stark stopped. 

He drew back. “I have to tell you something,” he said, seriousness colouring his face – as drastic as Tony had ever seen. “And I have to tell you because someone I considered to be a good friend kept this from me, and fought me when I found out.”

It was Tony's turn to press a protective kiss to Mr. Stark's forehead. 

Mr. Stark took a breath. “It's about Mom and Dad.”

Silence followed Mr. Stark's admission, the truth he unearthed as part of a grand ploy to rip his team apart. Brain churning, digesting the information and all its subtextual subtleties, Tony was quiet. 

“They were murdered?” he finally asked, unaware of how much time had passed, uncaring. 

Mr. Stark nodded. Frozen wrath blazoned his expression, though he did his best to temper it. 

“By Captain America's friend?” Tony couldn't find the voice to name the man directly.

“Yes.” There was something about the thick, choked emotion embedded in that one-word reply that suppressed Tony's own mixture of misery. 

Placing his grief and rage on the backburner, Tony allowed his face to soften, his words to cushion Mr. Stark. “And they didn't tell you,” he whispered, tender.

Lips parting slightly at Tony's concern, Mr. Stark turned his head to the side. Possibly composing himself, Tony speculated, although Tony didn't care. Mr. Stark's open honesty meant more than Tony could vocalise, could process, and Tony was a greedy man, he wanted every tiny piece of the man. Even the parts Mr. Stark would rather no one see, was ashamed of – Tony desired.

One of the great failings of his upbringing was his inability to articulate emotions. However, he was an expert in actions and gestures. Like the old saying went: _actions speak louder than words._

Without a pause for consideration lest he talk himself out of it, Tony delicately, precisely, took Mr. Stark's chin in hand, feeling those greying bristles prickle the skin of his fingers. He looked into his eyes and pressed their mouths together – kissing softly, deeply, beautifully.

When they withdrew, threads of saliva conjoined their mouths. 

* * *

Time saw the progression of their relationship, evolving into something exquisitely, agonisingly majestic.

Mr. Stark took the lead. 

“Let me,” Mr. Stark purred, lips moving against the rosy-red apple of Tony's bearded cheek. The rasp of his goatee must have tickled the flesh – Tony knew that feeling first hand – but he didn't let it show. 

Tony recognised the true meaning behind Mr. Stark's hushed plea: _Trust me._

Needless to say, Tony did. 

(He always had.)

Mr. Stark didn't fuck him, no. As corny as it was – and Tony would like it on record that he did think it was incredibly corny – Mr. Stark _made love_ to Tony. Delicately, in a manner Tony never was; elegantly, in a way Tony could only strive to be; deeply, as Tony liked. 

Soft words, whispering, “Fuck, you're perfect.” Tender hands claiming him, placing him on a pedestal. Lips and teeth and tongue laying claim to his bruised and battered body, licking his wounds. 

Tony's back arched under the wet exploration of Mr. Stark's tongue, encouraging him to probe deeper, to use those bristles on that beard to scrub away all the dirt and grime that still littered Tony's body, to wash away every last trace of Afghanistan and the crimes of his past and prepare him for what lay beyond. 

“You're so beautiful, Tony,” Mr. Stark praised: hushed and awed. No trace of a lie. 

Tony begged for more, unravelling under Mr. Stark's touch, capitulating to Mr. Stark's whispered commands, body and mind in complete tandem as they surrendered the fight. Warfare was the furthest thing from Tony's brain – the dregs from a life Tony was working hard to amend. 

Mr. Stark treated Tony like treasure. As though Tony were something precious, something sterling, something to cherish. 

Tony came embarrassingly fast. Thankfully, Mr. Stark was just as far gone, coming deep inside him soon after. His lips sought Tony's – respiratory systems merging into one. 

“You know where I belong?” Mr. Stark whispered into the curve of Tony's lips. His hand inched up Tony's bare chest, hands splaying on the arc reactor. “Here. Right here.”

Tony reached up, and interlaced their fingers. They stayed like that for an indiscernible amount of time: two hearts, one damaged, one healed – beating in harmony. 

It felt like...home. 

Huh, Tony never really understood the concept – kinda hard to, what with an absentee father and an army of nannies to raise him. Maybe this was it. 

Mr. Stark. Tony. He– _he_ was home. 

Like all those cheap self-help books spouted: self-love was ever so important. 

* * *

From there on out, Tony let Mr. Stark take the reins on all their sexual endeavours. It was easily the best decision Tony had ever made. He spent his days controlling everything and everybody – Stark Industries, S.H.I.E.L.D., Fury's Avengers Initiative programme that Tony was, at the minute, consulting on – but his nights? His nights were filled with Mr. Stark. 

They were all for him. Nobody else.

Tony's lust was an epically insatiable monster. Luckily, Mr. Stark was well-equipped to deal with it. By this point, Tony was well within his rights to grant the man an honorary doctorate – qualified as he was in servicing the great Tony Stark.

Tony pressed a little blue pill to Mr. Stark's tongue, watching, enraptured, as he swallowed it dry. 

Oh, someone was getting laid tonight. 

* * *

“Fuck,” Tony cried, digging his heels in. “Harder!”

Mr. Stark just laughed at Tony's wanton display, perspiration making itself known on his hairline. 

Nevertheless, he granted Tony's wish and fucked him harder.

(After that particular act, Tony couldn't walk straight for a week. Incredible.)

* * *

Against all rhyme or reason, Tony was struck by the urge to write some poetry. Seriously – he could pen an entire ballad, a sonnet, on the glorious curve of Mr. Stark's hips, on the way his eyes lightened when Tony looked into them, on the way he looked as he slid inside him, putting Tony back together again, one thrust at a time until–

Okay. Maybe not a sonnet. A limerick, maybe:

_There was an old man from the future_

Except, that was as far as Tony got because he wasn't a goddamn poet, he was a scientist. The whole surreal nature of the situation had broken his brain. 

Mr. Stark had ruined him beyond all recognition. 

* * *

Post-traumatic stress disorder was one of those things Tony'd obviously heard about – mainly via second-hand sources, like Rhodey and the soldiers he used to supply weapons for – but had, ignorantly, assumed would never affect him. 

It was just– weird. Unsettling, almost, to see it happen in real life. 

Tony had never anticipated Mr. Stark being afflicted by PTSD. At least, not until he'd seen it in action: Mr. Stark, clawing his way out of a rapid succession of nightmares, each one sounding more horrifying than the last. By the time Tony had awoken long enough to try and rouse him, Mr. Stark was drenched in a cold sweat, eyes blown wide with undiluted terror.

“Baby,” Tony whispered, hushed, tone covered in thinly-veiled concern. His hands drifted to Mr. Stark's bed-head, stroking his hair and scalp with affectionate touches. “Baby, it's just me. Just me. I'm here, I got you. You're safe.”

Mr. Stark didn't react at first, and then a breath escaped the confinement of his throat – a sound like surrender – and he leaned his body weight into Tony, entrusting Tony to put him back together again. 

Staccato exhalations bounced off the walls of Tony's bedroom. Tony tried to help Mr. Stark level his breathing, to copy Tony's own – to breathe deep, and know that he wasn't about to die. 

In short: Tony waited for the adrenaline crash. 

“I'm sorry,” Mr. Stark muttered, strangled. Tony's arms enveloped him, Mr. Stark clinging on, grateful.

“Don't be. Just, tell me what I can do to help.”

Mr. Stark's helpless shrug shattered Tony's already broken heart. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” proposed Tony. “It's just me and you here.”

Side-eyeing him, Mr. Stark considered Tony's proposition. Tony did his best to channel his most supportive front because Mr. Stark deserved the very best from him, and Tony was damn well going to deliver it. 

Finally, he consented. Tony had the full story – the dissolution of the Avengers, Thanos, Titan. 

The kid.

“So,” Tony began, voice rough with all the undefended truth floating around in the room. “You're cracking time travel for some spider-child you unintentionally adopted?”

Mr. Stark's expression softened; a glorious sight. “He's an amazing kid. You'll like him.”

Copying Mr. Stark's features seamlessly, Tony said, “I'll take your word for it.” Then, “You are so beautiful.”

Mr. Stark paused, digesting the unwitting truth that lay below Tony's words, before he smiled a truly blinding smile that singed Tony's eyesight greater than any Afghan sun. 

“Yeah?” Mr. Stark took his hand. 

Tony pressed a close-lipped kiss to his knuckles. “Yeah.”

Tears glinted in the dim light of the room. “Peter would go crazy if he knew I cracked it. He'd love it.” A faux-cringe followed – “He'd probably make a _Star Wars_ reference. He can't help it. It's an affliction.”

“Peter,” Tony murmured, testing the word in his mouth. “And that's the boy?”

Mr. Stark nodded. “My kid in all but name,” he whispered, sad and wistful. Melancholy clouded Mr. Stark's disposition, and Tony would have liked for nothing more than to cast the sun down upon his woes, split them apart like Rutherford did to the atom. Yet, Tony could no more banish the man's demons than he could vanquish his own. 

What he could do, though, was press a dainty kiss to Mr. Stark's hand and wrap his arms around his middle. 

Mr. Stark pressed back. 

“Tell me about him,” encouraged Tony, and for the duration of Mr. Stark's little anecdotes and short stories, his ears rang with Mr. Stark's admiration for Spider-Man, his acclaim for Peter Parker. Buried within all that was the knowledge that Mr. Stark cared for this kid in a deeply paternal manner Tony always wished Howard would for them. 

Maybe Tony wasn't a lost cause, after all. 

Waiting for the rise and fall of Mr. Stark's chest to indicate his sleep-state, Tony allowed himself to fall into unconsciousness. The last coherent thought he had before he drifted away was: _I love you._

* * *

Tony didn't panic the first time Mr. Stark skipped town. Albeit, he did mourn his absence in his usual, eccentric way – creating and dismantling a dozen or so robots, tinkering needlessly with his Iron Man suits, and singing the lyrics to every AC/DC song in existence. He did refrain from alcohol, so for that he gave himself a chuffed pat on the back. The second night roughly followed the same formula, although it became harder to remain sober. 

By the third night, Tony's anxiety manifested, and his control issues, of which he had them in abundance, skyrocketed. In a desperate attempt to not start drinking, he buried his head deep in science, entering a full-blown, workaholic fugue state. He damn well came near to revolutionising the laws of time travel himself. 

Sleep, of which he had been actively avoiding, waiting instead for any sign of the man he was in love with, did not take well to being blown off, and snuck up on Tony during the third night. He passed out, slumped over the lab desk, tools clattering to the ground in discordant harmony. 

His dream-world was a diminishing sun of colour: burnt, charred orange. Tony tried walking through the dreamscape, legs encountering strong resistance. He looked down – he was submerged in murky waters. 

There, Mr. Stark came to him. 

“Hey.”

Tony trekked over to him, wading through tar-like water. 

“Hey.”

Mr. Stark gestured to their surroundings. “I have to say, this isn't how I imagined death would be like.”

The smile that had been slowly conquering Tony's face froze. 

Without showing any hint of attentiveness at Tony's growing horror, Mr. Stark pressed on, looking anywhere except at his mirror image. “I mean, it's peaceful, I suppose. In its own way. Only a tiny bit ominous.”

Tony regained control of his speech long enough to spit, “ _Death?_ ”

At that, Mr. Stark snapped his head to Tony's. His expression was infuriatingly impenetrable, even to Tony, who shared every one of his mannerisms.

“Yes. Sorry, didn't I mention? I'm dead.” He extended his arms, a horrifying facsimile of Tony's Jericho presentation. He dropped them. “Or dying. I'm not really clear on the time frame. Everything's all a little jumbled.”

Tony shook his head. “No,” he denied. “No, you're not dead. You're not dying. Do you know how often I think I'm dying? I'm always fine. _You're_ always fine.”

Sympathy painted Mr. Stark's face, washing it out an ugly pale colour. It made Tony sick the longer he was forced to confront it. “Not this time,” he whispered, and a tiny part of Tony broke apart at the seams.

“Tell me what I can do to help,” whispered Tony, unconsciously mirroring the words he'd uttered when Mr. Stark last needed his help, his safety, his love.

Mr. Stark breached the distance between them, walking on water, coming to a stop just a few scant millimetres away. 

“Don't waste it,” Mr. Stark said, bittersweet, and Tony was caught on the painful reminiscence. “Don't waste your life.”

Overwhelmed, Tony closed his eyes. Just for a second. 

Mr. Stark was nothing but a speck in the distance by the time Tony applied necessary restrictions on his emotions and opened his eyes.

_Screw it._

“Tony,” called Tony, chasing after his silhouette on suspiciously fast feet. “I love you.”

The look engraved on Mr. Stark's handsome face would be forever immortal; titanic. It transcended the bounds of human experience, unrivalled in its intensity; supreme. 

Tony blinked– and the image glitched. 

When he woke up, in the lab, by himself, patches of wet tear trails littered his face. They dripped down onto the arc reactor embedded within his armour, fizzling; _fusing._

Together.

* * *

Mr. Stark died.

As for Tony, he assumed the role of head of the Avengers, surpassing even the great Captain America. Anyone who kept life-changing secrets from their teammates did not deserve to be leader. Coding a thousand safety protocols into every one of his Iron Man marks, Tony did his best to emulate the _suit of armour around the world_ Mr. Stark aspired to create. 

In addition, Tony also hand-crafted a dozen or so Spider-Man suits, long before Peter Parker would ever be bitten by a radioactive spider and hunt down criminals in his spare time. Still – it never hurt to be prepared for every eventuality.

Tony lived his life; the life Mr. Stark wanted for him, desired for him. The kind of life Mr. Stark deserved, Tony worked hard to honour.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! :) Please don't hesitate to tell me what you guys thought about it.


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